


Catalyst

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:46:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Duke of Crowborough makes Thomas an offer he can't refuse. Jimmy is of the opinion he should refuse it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catalyst

“His Lordship has informed me the Duke of Crowborough will be coming to stay for two nights at the beginning of next week.” Mr. Carson made the announcement after supper, as everyone sat around the table. Thomas dropped the shoe brush in his hand. It landed face-down, of course, scattering dirt and bits of hay and God knew what else everywhere.

“Well, now. There's a name from the past,” Mrs. Hughes replied, mild surprise in her voice. Thomas pushed the dirt off the table and took up the brush again. The state of Mr. Branson's shoes weren't strictly Thomas' concern, but they became one when the man dragged entire farmyards into the house. 

“One that should stay there, if you ask me,” Thomas put in. He couldn't help himself. Mr. Carson seemed about to embark on a glower, so he added, “Mr. Crawley's barely three months buried. The last thing Lady Mary needs is the vultures circling.” 

“Yes. Well.” Mr. Carson was apparently mollified. “His Lordship's guests are no business of ours. We are tasked with ensuring His Grace has a pleasant and enjoyable visit, and that is what we will do. Especially you, Mr. Barrow.” Thomas looked up. Carson couldn't know. No one knew. Did they? Panic crept into the edges of Thomas' mind as Mr. Carson continued, “We have been asked to provide His Grace with a valet for the duration of his stay.” 

“You don't mean me.” It wasn't a question.

Mr. Carson's eyebrows went up. “You are qualified for the position, are you not?”

Too qualified. “I'm the under-butler. Why not get...” Thomas glanced across the table. Jimmy sat on the other side, smiling. Beside him, Alfred appeared to be cleaning his fingernails with a spoon. “Alfred to do it?” Alfred looked up, sporting an expression that managed to be both insolent and mulish. Thomas ignored the glimmer of hurt that flicked over Jimmy's face. In an instant, it was gone, although the smile did not return. 

Mr. Carson did not dignify the suggestion with a response. Instead, he stood. “You will be adequate for the task, Mr. Barrow, I feel quite sure of it.” That was just as well, since Thomas felt no such thing. Mr. Carson left, and the others followed. Anna and Bates went home to their cottage. Miss O'Brien disappeared outside with her cigarettes. Thomas would once have joined her, but those days were long gone. Mrs. Hughes and Alfred and the kitchen staff trickled away one by one, until only Jimmy and Thomas remained at the table. 

“You'll brush a hole clear through them shoes, if you're not careful,” Jimmy warned. 

Thomas smiled despite himself. “Then maybe Mr. Branson will finally hire his own valet.” Although it was doubtful. 

“Why did you suggest Alfred and not me? Don't you think I could do it?” Thomas looked over. Jimmy blinked at him, long eyelashes flickering against creamy skin. Thomas would once have interpreted such a gesture as flirtatious, even coquettish. He knew better now. Fortunately.

“Of course you could do it. But you don't want to.”

“Why not?”

Thomas sighed and put down the shoes. They were as clean as they were ever going to get, given that Mr. Branson was going to take them right back into the middle of a barn the next morning. “Because the Duke of Crowborough is not a very nice man.”

Jimmy laughed. “And you've forgotten Lord Haverwell, who threw his cane at my head when I asked if I could get him another drink?” 

“Crowborough's not your sort of man, Jimmy.” Thomas gave what he hoped was a meaningful look. Jimmy looked back, a faint blush coming to his cheeks. Beneath the table, his foot kicked Thomas', their shoes touching for the briefest of moments before Thomas moved away.

“I manage you all right, don't I, Mr. Barrow?”

Jimmy's friendship was a gift, and not to be taken for granted. Every day, Thomas reminded himself of that, and every day, he was endlessly grateful that Jimmy seemed genuinely to want to spend time with him.

It hadn't been easy. From that first day in Thomas' sickroom, Jimmy had been unhesitatingly dedicated to being Thomas' friend. It was everyone else who took issue with it. Jimmy had said that Alfred, of all people, was the first to encourage a more cordial relationship between Jimmy and Thomas, but he had clearly forgotten that. Now, Alfred seemed halfway to the police station every time Thomas as much as glanced in Jimmy's direction. O'Brien encountered Thomas and Jimmy on a stroll one night and said, “Taking it slowly this time, are we? How sweet,” in a tone so condescending and suggestive Thomas expected Jimmy to run a mile. He merely turned pale and said, “Let's walk on, Mr. Barrow.” 

One afternoon, when Thomas and Mr. Carson were studying the household accounts, Mr. Carson abruptly closed the ledger and stared a hole into the opposite wall. “I appreciate your efforts to create harmony below stairs,” Carson said, his voice strangled, as if he were attempting to pass a kidney stone. “But you will agree it is madness to entrust an alcoholic with the keys to the wine cellar.”

It took Thomas a long moment to understand what he meant. When he did, his face grew hot. “A former alcoholic, Mr. Carson,” he replied.

Carson's eyes slid over, but he didn't meet Thomas' gaze. “There is no such thing.”

“They think there's something wrong with me,” Jimmy said, as he and Thomas leaned against the courtyard wall that same evening. It was dark, the only light shining out from the window behind them. 

Thomas shook his head and stamped out his cigarette in the dirt. “They think there's something wrong with me.” They were right. Every time Jimmy brushed against him in the hall, every time Jimmy smiled at him or laughed or brought him a cup of tea at the end of a long day, it came back: the painfully joyous longing that had caused all this trouble in the first place. It never really went away.

“There's nothing wrong with you,” Jimmy replied. “You just haven't got any common sense.” Thomas blinked. No one had summed him up so succinctly and precisely before. He was so taken with the thought he almost missed it when Jimmy added, “So let's make it a secret.” 

“You want a secret...friendship?” 

“Yes. Just a friendship, mind.” It was impossible to miss the emphasis in Jimmy's voice. “It'll be worth it if it gets Mr. Bates to stop asking if there's anything I need to tell him.” 

And so it began. Jimmy started coming to Thomas' room at night, fully clothed including jacket and tie, which made Thomas laugh. Jimmy looked sheepish, but he never removed a single article of clothing. They shared stories and confidences and cigarettes. They ate the chocolate biscuits and drank the illicit liquor Jimmy bought in Ripon. They laughed together, so loudly sometimes that Thomas worried they would wake the house. There was absolutely nothing untoward about it, and Thomas had never been happier. Until the Duke of Crowborough came to visit.

The man had held up well, even Thomas could admit that. His hair was thinner and his forehead lined, but he still cut a dashing figure, arriving at Downton Abbey in a brand new Austin Wasp. Lord Grantham met him with a hearty handshake, as if he were some long-lost family member. 

“I apologize that Lady Edith is not here,” Lord Grantham began, inexplicably. Thomas couldn't remember Crowborough ever exchanging two words with Lady Edith. “She's been spending a lot of time in London lately.”

“Ah, yes. The famous writer.” Lord Grantham winced, but Crowborough went on, “It's so good of you to allow it. Very progressive.” The wince turned into a pained half-smile. 

“You'll remember Carson.” Lord Grantham pointed to the steps, where the staff had arrayed themselves. “And Thomas.”

“Of course.” Crowborough smiled, but his eyes didn't linger. They flicked instead to Bates, then to Alfred, and then to Jimmy, where they rested for an uncomfortably long moment. If Jimmy noticed, he didn't show it. Thomas, staring straight ahead, felt his stomach twist, but he could hardly fault Crowborough for his interest. 

Crowborough's eyes came back to Thomas. “If you'll take my bags up to my room, please. I'll be there shortly.”

Thomas heroically refrained from spitting on Crowborough's shoes. “Yes, Your Grace.” 

Crowborough had never been one to travel light. Even working apace, Thomas was unable to unpack all of his suitcases and hang up all his clothes before the bedroom door opened and he found himself alone with the man for the first time in years. 

“Hallo, Thomas. Or should I call you Mr. Barrow now?” Thomas didn't reply. He kept his back to Crowborough and picked up a jacket, smoothing out wrinkles and arranging it on a hanger. “You came through the war in one piece, I see.”

“More or less.” 

Crowborough laughed, although Thomas could see absolutely nothing of humour in the situation. “I must say, I'm a bit surprised you're still here. I'd have thought you'd be off in America bootlegging whisky by now.” Thomas shrugged. It was rude, but Crowborough was more than welcome to put in a complaint if he so desired. Perhaps, Thomas hoped, it would spur Carson to get Alfred on the job instead. “I can't really blame you for staying, though, not when the scenery's so...inspiring. That blond footman's a cracker, isn't he?”

Now, Thomas turned, unable to keep himself from frowning. Crowborough smirked. “Oh, dear. I do hope I haven't spoken out of turn. Is he a particular friend of yours?”

“I like to think I'm friends with everyone I work with.” Most of them, in any case. He owed them that, after all they'd done to defend him in his darkest hour.

Crowborough laughed again, a loud bray that grated on Thomas' nerves. “That's new. You used to go on forever about how much you hated them.”

“People change.”

“I suppose they do.” 

Thomas was suddenly very tired. “Why are you here?” He asked, belatedly adding, “Your Grace,” as the barest of courtesies. 

Crowborough shifted, and the smirk disappeared. “I wanted to pay my respects to Lord Grantham. He lost his daughter and his heir in quick succession. I feel badly for the poor man.” Crowborough hesitated. Thomas waited. “And I wanted to see you.”

“Why?” They hadn't exactly parted as friends. Thomas would have been perfectly content never to lay eyes on Crowborough again, and he would have wagered Crowborough felt the same.

“I am in need of a valet.” 

If Thomas had been a different man, he would have laughed aloud. Instead, his frown deepened. “What?”

“A valet,” Crowborough repeated. “We can't all inspire loyalty in our servants the way Grantham seems to. As you can see, I am currently muddling along on my own.” 

Thomas opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I feel that we've travelled this road before, Your Grace.” It was the mildest of many possible responses.

Crowborough had the gall to sigh, as if he had been the wronged party. “I know. But this is different. My butler is on his last legs.”

“I'm sure he'd be delighted to hear you say it.”

“It's true. He makes Carson look like a spring chicken. If he's not dead in a year, I'm putting him out to pasture, and that will leave me with another post to fill. An important one.” He met Thomas' eye.

Thomas didn't know what to say. Butler to a duke was about as high a position as he could ever hope to achieve. A small part of him was intrigued by the suggestion but another, much larger, part was mired in confusion. “Why would you want me?” 

“You look the part, and I think you'd be good at it. You needn't decide right now. Just...consider it. I would want you to start as soon as possible. To come with me when I leave here, ideally, although I would understand if you wanted to give Grantham some notice.” 

“I'll think on it.” Thomas had never thought to utter the words, but he could hardly do otherwise.

He thought all day. Despite everything, the argument in favour of accepting was strong. He would be afforded money, power, and position beyond all but his most implausible dreams. The Crowboroughs were friends with the Royal Family, true friends, in that the King and Queen occasionally came to stay. If he was destined for a life in service, as he appeared to be, then, Thomas thought, he might as well serve someone worthwhile.

But the argument against was equally persuasive. This was the Duke of Crowborough, the first—if not the last—man to break Thomas' heart. And leaving Downton would mean leaving Jimmy, the mere thought of which gave Thomas a sharp, severe pain in his chest, not unlike acute indigestion.

Thomas went over and over the idea in his mind. Crowborough didn't raise the subject again, not even as Thomas helped him prepare for bed. Instead, the Duke wanted to hear family gossip, asking how Tom Branson was coping with his change of class and wondering aloud about Lady Mary's odds of ever remarrying. 

“I would have thought you'd know as much about that as anyone,” Thomas replied, easily, before he could think about it. 

“I'm afraid that ship sailed long ago, my dear.” Crowborough reached out and touched him gently on the wrist. All at once, it was like the old days again. Thomas swallowed and said, “Good night,” but his voice wasn't brisk enough. He could feel Crowborough's eyes on his back as he left the room.

Acting as Crowborough's valet didn't, apparently, exempt Thomas from his own duties as under-butler. By the time he got to bed himself, he was ready to fall asleep in his clothes. He pulled them off, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and was about to climb into bed when there was a light knock on the door. 

“I haven't seen you all day,” Jimmy accused once he was inside, the bedroom door shut firmly behind him. He was completely dressed, as always, and there was an annoyance in his eyes that irritated Thomas.

“I've been busy. And I am extremely tired, so if you don't mind, Jimmy...” Thomas sat on his bed, expecting Jimmy to leave. Instead, he came in and sat on the chair.

“Is he treating you all right?” Jimmy asked. 

Thomas' annoyance faded. “He's been fine.” He hesitated, but there was no reason not to tell Jimmy about the offer. He could keep a secret. He'd proven that. “He wants me to go and work for him.”

“What?” Jimmy snapped. “How dare he!”

Thomas blinked. “It's not an insult.” Rather the reverse, in fact. “He wants me to start as his valet...”

“You're an under-butler,” Jimmy interrupted.

“And,” Thomas went on, “he's promised I'd be butler within a year.” 

“You can't do it.” Jimmy shook his head, as adamantly as if Thomas had proposed going to work as Crowborough's hall boy or under-gardener.

“It's a good opportunity.” 

“What if he's lying?” Jimmy's voice took on a strange edge. 

Thomas hesitated, but no. That was madness. If Crowborough still harboured a grudge over what had happened between them, he would have acted on it years earlier. In any case, he'd come out on top in that whole sordid affair. “He wouldn't do that.” 

“How do you know? You said he wasn't a nice man.”

“He's not. But neither am I.” Perhaps they deserved one another after all. 

“Yes, you are.” If Thomas hadn't known better, he would have sworn he saw tears in Jimmy's eyes. He did know better. He looked away, and when he looked back, Jimmy's face was composed again. “I would be sad to see you go.” 

“Would you?” They were friends, true enough, but Jimmy would make other friends. Ones he didn't have to hide.

Abruptly, Jimmy stood up. “But do as you like, of course.”

Thomas' irritation returned, amplified by his exhaustion. “I intend to.” 

Jimmy left without looking back. Thomas shut his eyes, but it was a long time before he fell asleep. 

The next day proved just as busy. Lord Grantham was keen to take the Duke out hunting, which meant of course that Thomas and Bates had to trail along with them. Halfway through the day, when they were the furthest away from the house, it began to rain. By the time they got back, Thomas was soaked to the skin. Bates went home to get changed, while Thomas dried himself off as well as he could and went to get Crowborough ready for dinner. 

“You should take off those clothes,” Crowborough said. “Before you catch your death.” Years ago, that was all the invitation Thomas would have needed. Now, he just smiled. 

“I'll be fine, thank you, Your Grace.” He took Crowborough's tails out of the wardrobe and lay them on the bed. He turned back for the tie and found Crowborough standing in his way, so close that Thomas could feel the warmth of the other man's body. 

“Thomas.” Crowborough stepped nearer still. He leaned in. Thomas did the same, his own name reverberating in his ears as he pressed his mouth against Crowborough's.

It was good, and at the same time, it wasn't. It had been a long time, years, since Thomas had kissed anyone who reciprocated, so that alone was enough to make his heart hammer in his chest and his prick stir with interest. Crowborough's lips were the same as ever, soft and gentle, his tongue eager to meet Thomas'. He brought his hand up to the side of Thomas' face, fingers venturing into Thomas' hair. Still, it was missing something vital. Like smoking a clove cigarette, Thomas thought. Or like going to the pub and drinking only ginger beer.

Crowborough pulled away, breathless. “Have you considered my offer?” 

“I'm still thinking,” Thomas replied, honestly.

When Crowborough and the Granthams were finally at dinner, Thomas was able to at last get to his room. He got changed and went to find something that might warm him up. Other than the Duke of Crowborough.

When he got downstairs, the kitchen was deserted. “Daisy!” She popped her head around the corner. “I need a cup of tea.” 

“It's not suppertime yet.”

“Did I ask if it was?” 

A frown passed over Daisy's face, although Thomas couldn't for a moment guess why. He hadn't been particularly rude. By his old standards, that was very nearly pleasant. “Oh, no. Not you as well.” She came in and went over to the stove. “Jimmy's been in a right state all day, and now you.” She nevertheless put the kettle on. Thomas rewarded her with a tight smile, until her words permeated his consciousness. 

“What's wrong with Jimmy?”

“He's been snapping at everyone. Told poor Alfred he was stupider than the back end of a horse, and twice as ugly.” Thomas laughed. “It's not funny,” Daisy insisted, although the corners of her mouth twitched. “Whatever the matter is, I hope it's not catching. I don't need Mrs. Patmore getting on at me as well as you lot.” She made the tea. Thomas thanked her and smiled, more genuinely this time, but he couldn't shake what she'd said. He tried to catch Jimmy's eye at supper. Jimmy ignored him, and before they'd even finished the meal, Crowborough's bell was ringing. 

The Duke wanted Thomas to spend the night. It was evident from the look in his eyes and the hands that wandered down Thomas' back, exploring from his shoulders to his waist, as Thomas attempted to undress him. Thomas allowed it, until the hands began to grope at his backside. He stepped away. Crowborough let him go, although his cheeks were flushed and his arousal was obvious.

“Quite right, Thomas. Plenty of time for that when we're living under the same roof, what?” Crowborough smiled.

Thomas' first instinct was to disagree, vehemently, but then he thought again. Jimmy had made a good point. He had no reason to trust Crowborough, and every reason not to. But he also had the upper hand, for once. “I'm sure I will be very eager to celebrate once I'm your butler, Your Grace.”

Crowborough's smile grew. He laughed and clapped Thomas on the shoulder, casually, as if they were friends. “You haven't changed after all.” 

“Evidently not.” But as he left the room, he was beset by a vague, unsettling sense of guilt he was quite sure he'd never felt before.

It was well after midnight by the time Thomas got back to his bedroom, but all thoughts of sleep flew out of his mind when he opened the door and saw Jimmy sitting in his chair, reading.

In his underclothes. 

A bubble of joy, and hope, and lust formed at once in Thomas' chest. Jimmy glanced over his shoulder and tossed the book aside. Thomas shut the door, his heart pounding. He went around to sit on the bed, facing Jimmy. Jimmy looked at him and said, calmly and deliberately, “What were you thinking that night you came into my room?”

The bubble burst. Thomas collapsed on the bed with a groan, the bedhead thudding against the wall. “Jimmy, I'm sorry about that. I truly am. But I've apologized many times.” _Ad nauseam_ , in fact. 

Jimmy waved a hand, as if he were brushing away an insect. “What was going through your mind? Just tell me. Please.” His voice caught on the last word.

Thomas sat up again. If he was going to leave anyway, there was no reason not to be honest. He didn't need to reflect on the subject; he knew exactly what he'd been thinking that night. He still thought it all the time. “That you are the most beautiful creature I've seen. And that what I feel for you far surpasses anything I've ever felt for anyone else.” Thomas tried to keep his voice steady, calm and emotionless. He met with limited success.

Jimmy nodded. His jaw was set, his eyes unreadable. “What about now?” 

“It hasn't changed.” It never would, whether they were friends or enemies, whether Thomas lived at Downton Abbey or with the Duke of Crowborough.

And there it was, out in the open. This wasn't the way Thomas would have chosen to end their friendship, but he'd given up the right to determine the path of it a long time ago. He waited for Jimmy to leave. Jimmy didn't move. He stayed where he was, so quiet and still that Thomas began to wonder if he was unwell. Then Jimmy moved onto the bed. His weight shifted the mattress; the springs creaked beneath them. Thomas sat still, afraid to do or say anything that might break the spell. After another hesitation, shorter this time, Jimmy leaned over and kissed him.

The feel of Jimmy's lips against his snapped Thomas back into reality. It was chaste, at first, all gentle lips and closed mouths, but it evolved quickly. Jimmy's arms came around and pulled him close, his hands bunching up the back of Thomas' waistcoat. His tongue slipped against Thomas', and the sensation seemed to spark something in Jimmy. All at once, his hands began to roam and his mouth grew demanding, opening Thomas' as if he meant to devour him.

Thomas didn't know whether he should laugh or cry. His body suffered no such crisis of conscience. In an instant, his prick was hard, straining his trousers and putting up a tent worthy of any army sergeant. When Jimmy leaned closer still, it bumped against his hip. Jimmy froze. Time stopped, along with Thomas' heart. Then, Jimmy shifted his hand to Thomas' lap, stroking him through the fabric, and both began again. “What do you want?” Jimmy's tongue flicked out, tracing the edge of Thomas' ear, and it was very nearly all over before it began. 

“Anything,” Thomas managed to gasp. “I don't care.” Jimmy kissed him again, softly on the lips, and knelt beside the bed. 

What Jimmy lacked in experience he more than made up for in enthusiasm. He licked and stroked so eagerly, Thomas was on the verge of collapse even before Jimmy looked up, catching his eye, and pulled the tip of Thomas' prick into his mouth. Not half a second later, Thomas was coming and Jimmy was spluttering. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Thomas murmured, as soon as he was capable of any form of coherent speech. 

“Don't be.” Jimmy joined him on the bed, their bodies pressed together out of necessity as much as desire. For once, Thomas wasn't complaining about the size of the bed. Jimmy's hand slid between them, fondling Thomas' spent prick. Jimmy hesitated again, but when he spoke, his voice was full of bravado.“But I was rather hoping you'd have me tonight.” Those words, said so conversationally by Jimmy Kent of all people, were almost enough to give Jimmy what he wanted. Almost. 

“We don't have to rush into that.” There would be chance to try everything, multiple times if Thomas had his way. His mind reeled with fantasies, most of which, if he was honest, had appeared fully formed in glorious detail the moment Jimmy walked into Downton Abbey. 

“I think we've waited long enough, don't you?” 

Thomas licked his lips, then Jimmy's. Jimmy's arousal, impressive and anxious, twitched against them both. “Well, you're still...ship shape and Bristol fashion.” 

Jimmy's smile faded, but before Thomas could say anything else, he replied, “Do you want me to do that?” in a tone that sounded more uncertain than unwilling. 

Thomas grinned. “I daresay I could summon a bit of enthusiasm for it.”

Afterward, Jimmy lay on his back, sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead, staring at the water-stained ceiling as if it held the secret of life. Thomas, crowded to the edge of the bed, was about to get up and wash himself off when Jimmy hit him on the arm and said, “Why didn't you tell me about that years ago?” 

Thomas laughed, again. He couldn't remember when he'd done it so much in such a short space of time. “It didn't seem the most romantic angle from which to approach the situation.”

“Fuck romance.” The profanity stirred deep emotions in Thomas. He imagined a litany of it, a cascade of impolite and intemperate words falling from Jimmy's lips into his ears. It was a surprising thought, and an intriguing one.“It was never your strong suit anyway,” Jimmy added. Thomas could hardly argue the point. 

Jimmy rolled over, putting his arms around Thomas and holding him fast.“You weren't really thinking of leaving, were you?” 

Thomas couldn't begin this with a lie. He—and Jimmy, clearly—had lied to themselves and to each other enough for a lifetime. “Yes. I thought it was for the best,” he added quickly. “I wanted to be selfless.”

Jimmy's eyebrows moved against Thomas. “Selfless?”

The image of running a grand house and serving the Royal Family reappeared in his mind's eye. “Maybe not selfless. But I thought you'd have an easier life if I wasn't here.” He still thought that, because it was true.

Jimmy sighed. “I don't want an easy life. I want you.” 

If Thomas was dreaming, he hoped he would never wake up. And if he wasn't, he thought, running his hands through Jimmy's hair, then he was a much, much luckier man than he deserved to be. Still, he had to ask. “What made you change your mind?”

Jimmy leaned in closer, burying his face in Thomas' neck. He didn't reply. That was fine. This was a very personal discovery, a topic one did not necessarily wish to discuss, even with someone who was bound to understand. He got comfortable, planting a kiss in Jimmy's hair. Then, the voice came. “I saw who you really were,” Jimmy whispered, softly. Before Thomas could reply with a joke, he added, “And the rest didn't seem quite so frightening anymore.”

Jimmy stayed until dawn began to break, then slipped back to his own room. He left a whispered promise behind him: “I'll be back tonight.” 

Thomas had barely slept a wink all night, but he hadn't felt so invigorated in years. When it was time to get up, he fairly leaped out of bed, starting the day with such a spring in his step that Anna said, “You must enjoy being a valet again, Mr. Barrow,” as he passed her in the hall.

“Not at all, Anna.” Thomas beamed. He felt the urge to pick her up and swing her about, but he restrained himself. “Mr. Bates has nothing to fear from me.” None of them did. Thomas couldn't imagine a better group of people to work with. He was truly blessed. Even Miss O'Brien had her good points, and he beamed at her as she came out of Lady Grantham's dressing room. “Good morning, Miss O'Brien. I hope you're well.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What's got into you, then? Is Jimmy in the family way?” But the words sounded half-hearted at best. Suddenly, Thomas had nothing but pity for her. It was exhausting to spend one's life being angry at the world. He knew that first hand.

“I forgive you," he said. "For everything.” He moved on, leaving her to scowl after him. 

Crowborough was still in bed when Thomas arrived, his head beneath the covers. Thomas flung open the curtains, letting the sunlight stream into the room. 

“I'm sorry, Your Grace,” he said, because he had to come out with it at once, without prevarication. The Duke deserved that much, and he would accept Thomas' decision with good humour. He didn't have a choice. “I have to decline your offer after all. But thank you.”

Crowborough sat up against his pillows, squinting in the sun. “Oh.” Disappointment coloured his voice. “I say, that's rather unfortunate.” Be that as it may, Thomas wasn't going to apologize again. He went over to the wardrobe. Crowborough continued, “If it's because of some pretty boy, you can hire as many as you want when you're my butler. Fill the house with them if you like, I certainly won't complain.”

Thomas glanced over his shoulder. He had loved this man, once. That feeling was long dead, but the memory of it spurred him to say, “He's more than just a pretty boy.” 

“Ah.” Crowborough looked at him. “Well, I suppose I can't blame you, then. _Amor vincit omnia_ and all that.” Thomas said nothing. The Duke held out a hand. “Come here.” Thomas obeyed. Rather than attempt anything untoward, Crowborough merely caught Thomas' left hand, holding it between both of his. “You always were rather sweet. I'm sorry I hurt you.”

“We hurt one another, I think.” It had taken a lot of years and a lot of experience for Thomas to admit it, but he'd always known it was true. 

Crowborough raised Thomas' hand to his lips, planting a kiss on the glove. Then he released him. “That's enough of that. Mustn't get you into trouble with the wife. Or is he the husband?” 

Thomas ignored that. He was trying to develop common sense.

After breakfast, the entire staff turned out to see the Duke off. As Thomas loaded the last of the suitcases into the back of the car, he glanced back. Crowborough was at the bottom of the steps, speaking to Jimmy. A flash of anger passed through him. He pushed it aside and joined the rest of the staff as Lord Grantham said, “Do come again, Your Grace. And I'll make sure Lady Edith is in attendance next time.” 

“Of course. Thank you for your hospitality.” He glanced at Thomas. “And please, let me know if there's anything I can do for you in the future.”

“You're too kind,” Grantham replied. Crowborough drove off, and, although he was certainly pleased to see the back of him, Thomas didn't feel the sense of overwhelming relief he'd have expected just a few days earlier.

As they headed into the house, Thomas pulled Jimmy aside. Bates glanced at them. Thomas looked back, holding Bates' eye until he turned away and walked on. 

“What did the Duke say to you?” Thomas whispered. Even in public, it was intoxicating to be this close to Jimmy. He inhaled as deeply and discreetly as he could, savouring the scent of Jimmy's hair, his neatly pressed uniform, and Jimmy himself.

“Nothing much,” Jimmy replied. “Just that you like to receive letters.” He shrugged, as if the message were completely incomprehensible to him. Thomas would make sure it remained that way.

“James!” Mr. Carson called, his voice so heavy with sarcasm it could have been used to ballast a hot air balloon. “If it's not too much of an imposition, His Lordship has requested you attend him in the study. Provided you've nothing better to do, of course.” 

“I'll see you later.” Jimmy winked and followed Carson's call. Thomas headed downstairs, trying to ignore the distinct and unmissable set of muddy footprints defiling the carpet.


End file.
